


Ringside

by Feelsripper



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Boxing, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Chibs is an ATF agent, F/M, M/M, Other, Slow Burn, healing and closure, some canon deaths stick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-01 02:03:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20250367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feelsripper/pseuds/Feelsripper
Summary: After a close call in Stockton and the destruction of the Sons, Juice is left with no choice but to start over. He’s made a good go at it, despite the specters that linger from days gone past. He has work to keep his mind busy, and people to pass the time. Things are decent and uncomplicated.Until they’re not.Complicated comes in the form of an ATF agent named Chibs. He’s relentless and hell-bent on infiltrating the IRA, and worst of all, he thinks Juice can help. What starts out as a missing person case, soon turns into a plot of murder and deception. Both men are barely functional at best, and need one another—perhaps in more ways than one.Will either of them live to find the closure they so desperately need? Or will they crumble under the weight of old sins before they get a chance?In the end, they only have one choice: when going through Hell,keep going.





	1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The saying ‘you can’t teach an old dog new tricks’ was becoming the new motto to Chibs’ life, it seemed. His routine had been perfected over the course of forty seven years, and he had every intention of following it for the next forty seven. His morning consisted of rolling out of bed, assessing how bad his hang over was, and crawling to work in a crumpled shirt like it was intentional.

So of course, today would be when he broke from the mold, and ended up with his current mess: waiting an unfamiliar cafe with the hangover of a lifetime.

Thankfully, all he had to do was pick up the order, but of course, doing said task wouldn’t be easy. It should have been as simple as that in theory, but it never was when Tig sent him for coffee. He eyeballed the note in his hand: two simple requests for black coffees, and another for an over the top elaborate latte that spanned the back of the paper. 

Needless to say, he wasn’t doing that shit. Half the time Tig just wanted an excuse to get a pumpkin spice latte and simultaneously take the piss out of Chibs.

“Two black coffees and a large--_s’cuse me_\--venti pumpkin spice latte”. 

The barista, a mousy thing no older than sixteen, was fighting the unseen battle of which to stare at: the cup and felt tip pen, or his face. To her credit, he his face was...unique. The sad drooping eyes made people feel sorry for him (before they discovered he was an asshole), but the scar that stretched from ear to ear was an ever burning question to onlookers.

Despite the pounding headache, he still had his humor, however wicked. He made a small smile, tracing along the fine lines of the ever present ‘Glasgow Smile’. “Do I have something on my face?”

She only paled in response, and hastily scribbled something onto his cup. His humor wasn’t often shared, but it didn’t keep him from wheezing out a laugh anyways. He quickly paid for his order without further incidence, and shuffled off into what seemed like the last unoccupied wall space.

Something akin to his name was called out, and picked up the drink holder of needlessly large coffees. Out of curiosity, he checked what the barista had written down: Chips.

Fuck it, he wasn’t even going to touch that one.

By the time he arrived at the station, dawn was barely breaking. He nudged the office door open, inciting a chorus of cheers. Tig and Bobby stood up from behind their desks, clapping in a standing ovation. The other workers paid the trio no mind, giving a simple eye roll at their monitors.

“Our boy’s come back from the war!” Tig trotted up to him, wrapping a friendly arm around his neck.

“Fuck off, ya greasy animal.” It was far too early for their chipper shit. Chibs shrugged his shoulders, effectively shaking Tig off. He was careful not to spill the mugs and their contents. “Here’s ya pumpkin spice latte…ya girl.”

“Papa gets what Papa wants.” Tig gleefully took his latte with a wicked grin, slapping Chibs on the ass. 

“Uh, I’ll take my coffee without any of the ass action.” Bobby shook his head, waddling over from his desk to grab his beverage. “Thanks brother.”

“Appreciate that, Bobby.” He took a sip of his own coffee, but didn’t feel anymore awake. 

Aside from Bobby’s gesticulating and the boom of Tig’s voice, the office was otherwise quiet. Only the gentle tip-tapping of keyboards, shuffling of papers, and grunts of affirmation could be heard from their cohorts. Despite it being early morning, many of their coworkers were well into their first, if not second, shifts. The ATF worked long hours to begin with, but this case had been weighing heavily on everyone’s minds and ledgers. 

Even the two idiots gleefully sucking down their coffees couldn’t hide their exhaustion, no matter how animated they appeared.. Bobby’s wild grey hair had slowly come loose from the ponytail he’d wrangled it into, and his tiny bifocals sat front and center on his lined face. Tig had Venus as an incentive to go home and keep his spirits up, but the hours had kept him chained to his desk and he suffered for it. 

For Chibs, the long hours were just another step in his routine. It gave him the less time to think, and fewer chances to drink.

Chibs sat down at his desk, finally starting the computer and grabbing a few case files. Before he could get settled in however, he heard the telltale click-clack of heels. It could only mean trouble.

“Morning, boys. Shall we get started?” Agent Stahl clacked past them, her eyes scanning the room like a Queen over her court.

She opened the door to the briefing room and made a sweeping hand motion ushering them in.

They all knew the information Stahl was about to present, but it didn’t stop her from insisting on bi-monthly meetings. The department had been digging through the same pile of information and following leads for the past year. There was a collective sigh from the room, as haggard agents shuffled in with their half-drunk mugs of coffee. 

It wasn’t a bad idea to keep everyone sharp and on their toes, but at this point they were here more to cater to Stahl’s ego than to develop their cases.He was convinced the entire department had every damn mugshot and factoid on that presentation tattooed on the back of their eyelids.

“Listen up. We’ve spent a year on this case, and I’d like to close it before it gets to two.” 

Chibs rolled his eyes. They all wanted that, obviously.

She grabbed a black marker, scribbling across the whiteboard in large bold letters that spelled out ‘IRISH KINGS’, followed by a bracket below it titled ‘IRA’. “We’re all familiar with the Irish Republican Army by this point--the IRA is the paramilitary splinter group that didn’t accept the peace accords that ended ‘The Troubles’ in Ireland between the Protestants and Catholics. But I could give a rat’s ass about that. Let’s call them what they are: terrorists.” The bracket began to to fill out with names, dates, and crimes.

This bit was particularly boring for Chibs, seeing as he’d been born into that shit, but here they were.

“Despite the name ‘Irish’, members and sympathizers can be found worldwide, including our dear U S of A. We’ve trapped a few of their gun suppliers here in New York. They go through their channels throughout the country to trade and buy guns, since guns are how they keep their pro-Irish agenda on fire. But, I want more than just the IRA. They’re a symptom--I want to dig up the root of the issue.”

She capped her marker, momentarily using it to point to the bracket above it. “The hidden council of the IRA. We know this group is what leads the IRA—a paramilitary splinter group of the Irish Republican Army. This group, The Irish Kings—” She rapped her knuckles against a black piece of paper with a question mark on it, “—we know little about. It’s run by multiple people who, unfortunately for us, keep their noses clean.”

“The IRA Army Council purposely keeps to the shadows--they don’t involve themselves in the day to day; only the major decisions.” Stahl put her hands on her hips, gazing out over her captive audience. “ We’ve been working closely with Interpol, but our main focus is to get a toe hold, something that will allow us to bring people in for prosecution.” She moved down the line of photos. “ That’s where get to the IRA’s cover boy—now we’ve got something there.” She took his picture from off the board, lightly shaking his photo at them for extra emphasis.

“This is Jimmy O’Phelan. He’s the highest ranking member of the Real IRA outside of the council. Our dear Jimmy has been the face for many meet and greets for the Real IRA—gun trafficking, drug running, robbery, assassination—you name it. But it gets better.” Her heels click-clacked across the room with purpose as she snatched two large colored mugshots off the desk. “Meet Keith McGee and Liam O’Neill. They’re the reason why our errand boy are going stateside.”

Chibs looked at the three pictures before him. Liam had deep set eyes and sagging cheeks, whereas Keith looked like a cross between a kindly grandfather and a grizzled biker. They were standard ‘hired goons’ fodder, but Jimmy…  
Even in his mugshot, his eyes held no shine or spark of kindness. They were hollow, as if splitting a man from ear to ear was just another daily task for him.

He suppressed a shiver, and avoided the picture’s steely gaze.

Stahl on the other hand, continued on with enthusiasm, tapping each of their portraits as she taped them to the board. “These two chaps are leaders of some of the Irish Dissident groups in New York—we’ve been trying to pin them down for ages for trying to raise funds on behalf of a terrorist organization—the Real IRA. If Jimmy is coming down though, that means they’ve been doing more than shaking a few tin cans around. I hope you’re all ready to rub elbows with the local Irish in the area, because our sources tell us a major gun deal is in the works between McGee and O’Phalen, and soon. Until further instruction, continue working on your current assignments for the case. We have all of these other lovely ladies and gents to contend with as well.” She made a sweeping motion to the other rows of mugshots lining the board. “Work every lead you’ve got. We still don’t know when and where this said deal is going down, but you bet your ass it’s not a chance we want to miss. We get Jimmy, we get a crack at the Irish Kings and Interpol loves us. Remember, it’s not about what we know, but what we can prove. Questions?” 

Barely half a second passed before she was speaking again. “No? Dismissed.”

Stahl was determined to have the last word, and made a v-line to the backdoor, confirming their dismissal.

“Well, I suppose we’ll have a few more files on our desks, eh? I bet Stahl held the briefing so her cronies had time to dump more paperwork on us and slip out undetected.” Bobby stood, cracking his neck and stretching.

“Like you’d mind, Bobby. You love sitting on your ass—that’s why we give you all our paperwork.” Tigfollowed suit in the stretching, shooting the other man a sly grin.

“And here I thought it was because of my penmanship.” Bobby rolled his eyes, snorting.

Chibs ignored them, choosing instead to linger. One of Stahl’s lackies had stayed behind to clean up after her, per usual. One by one, the mugshots peeled away from the wall: Keith, Liam, Jimmy, and finally---Fiona.

Even from a photograph her gaze held his, dark eyes boring into him. Fiona was the wife of Jimmy O'Phelan, but she hadn’t always been. Once she had been tied to no one but herself, a loose cannon with a short fuse with all the rashness of youth. That was the woman he knew--unbridled and unbroken.

The woman looking back at him though was a far cry from the woman of twenty years ago. She still had the same brown eyes and shock of white hair, but her eyes were shuttered, revealing nothing; the raging fire died down to coals. They’d all made their decisions, made their pacts with the devil, and paid the price.

He shut his eyes. None of it mattered anymore--he’d never see Fiona again, and if he was lucky, Jimmy too.

“You alright?” Bobby looked from Chibs to the board, trying to read between the lines.

Tig clapped Chibs on the shoulder with a squeeze. “Don’t worry. We’ll catch the sonofabitch who carved your pretty face up. Jimmy can’t run forever.”

“Are you saying I’m not pretty anymore, Tiggy?”The best way to get people to move on was to disarm them with humor, or to ignore their questions and concern all together. He had become a master of both strategies over the duration of this case. “Yeh’ know how to break a lad’s heart.” 

“Papa still thinks you’re pretty, Chibs. Want me to show you how much?” He made a mock kissy sound.

For the second time that day, Chibs ended up shrugging him off. He should be glad the team was used to Tig’s eccentrics--any other person would have clocked him by now. It wouldn’t be the first time either--saying Tig’s humor was an acquired taste, and not one many shared, or tolerated.

“Alright, let’s get you back in your cage before you get written up for harassment...again.” Bobby couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head as he maneuvered the other man through the door.

He could hear the faint echo of Tig complaining as the remaining agents ambled down the hall. “There’s just so much of me to love. I can’t help it if other people don’t wanna love me back.”  
.  
He turned his back on the lineup and exited the briefing room, shutting the door behind him. He re-entered the main offices where the other agents were already back at their desks and hard at work. Unlike the rest of his colleagues, his day was just beginning. Chibs sat down in his chair, taking note of how much higher the stacks of paper had gotten. Bobby wasn’t kidding when he suggested that some of Stahl’s cronies had piled their desks sky-high with casefiles during the briefing. He lifted the first file from the top, flipping it open. The mugshot of Keith McGee greeted him with hard eyes upon opening the manila folder, confirming his assumptions.

He had work to do...after his morning cigarette, of course.

\---

Daylight was scarce this time of year, but he felt like he was living in darkness. The sun had yet to rise when he left for work, and it had long set by the time he arrived back at his flat. It made the days melt into one another, and easier to forget. 

Chibs ran a hand through his hair as he walked up the stairs with heavy steps. Exhaustion had settled over him, and the thought of having to get up and chase more paper trails made him even more tired. The only thing that brought him solace was the fact there was a bottle waiting for him at his apartment.

After eight flights of stairs he made it to his door, and fumbled for the keys. The hallway was dead quiet--no one respectable was up at four in the morning, anyways. A wolfish grin came over him, as he slid the key in the lock--he included himself as a part of that rabble. The door slammed shut behind him, and he quickly did the locks as he began to unpack the day’s baggage. He tossed the keyring onto the couch, rummaged through his pockets for a pack of smokes and a lighter, and shrugged the jacket off. Per the next part of his evening routine, he padded over to the fridge, lighting up as he went. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing of note, save a half drunk sixpack of beer, and an odd onion that grew odder with the passing days. His fingers drummed along the edge of the fridge in thought--it was more of a Johnnie Walker night, anyways. He shut the door and nabbed the bottle off the counter; there wasn’t a point putting it in its proper place in the cabinet. He’d long accepted he couldn’t sleep without a nightcap or two. With bottle in hand, he shuffled to his final destination.

By the time he made it to the couch, he had effectively stripped down to jeans and his undershirt, leaving a trail of crumpled clothing in his wake. He turned on the TV, kicking off his boots and placing his socked feet on the coffee table as he unscrewed the lid of the whiskey. Johnnie Walker red label was the cheapest of them all, but still worth a pretty penny. The murmuring of the TV was soft and familiar, and combined with the dredge of cigarette smoke and whiskey he was finally home. Before he could settle in for the night, the serene calm he had cultivated was shattered by the phone in his back pocket. It began to vibrate repeatedly, signaling a wave of unread text messages. 

“Oh for fucks sake.” Chibs grumbled under his breath, setting the open bottle on the coffee table. He rolled over slightly so he could root around in his back pocket for his phone, which incidentally was still chiming with notifications. Every night this would happen once he got back to the flat--he blamed the shitty signal. He was constantly missing calls, only to discover that he had several unopened voicemails days later. 

The screen lit up: voicemail from UNKNOWN NUMBER. Unknown numbers weren’t in the habit of leaving voicemails. Against his better judgement, he pressed play.

_“Filip? I swear to God this better be you.” _

The recording continued to play, but he’d recognized that Irish lilt anywhere: Fiona. He swallowed hard, attempting to steel himself for whatever was to come. Twenty years. 

_“Don’t ask how I got this number. I need--**we** need help. I have Kerrianne with me--we’re in New York--Jimmy doesn’t know yet. He can’t know. I didn’t want to call but you’re Kerr’s father--whatever that means to you. He knows, Filip. He knows that you and I--twenty years ago. She’s nineteen now--” _

_There was another soft voice. “Ma? We need to go--I-I heard something.” _

The lump in his throat bordered on painful. He’d never met his little girl, never seen her, never even heard her. Barely knew her name. His Kerrianne. He could hear Fiona take a deep breath, the tell-tale chaos of New York traffic confirming she was indeed in the city. She was the strongest woman he’d ever known--she had to be in order to be in the IRA--but there was an edge of hysteria to her voice. It was the tone of a mother trying to keep her emotions under control for the sake of her daughter.

And truly, she was in deep shit--why else would she risk being so close to ATF headquarters?

_“Just a second--Filip, do you hear me? You need to help us--you owe me that much. Meet us at--” _

There was a scraping sound--much like the sound of a phone hitting concrete followed by a scuffle.

_ “Mom!” _

The line disconnected.

There were so many questions running through his mind--When had Fiona called? How did she get to New York without her husband, the U.S. and Irish governments knowing? How did she get his number? How did Jimmy find out that Kerrianne wasn’t his? And most importantly--why did Fiona contact him for help? As much as it pained him, Jimmy O'Phelan was more of Kerr’s father than he was.

It felt like a giant meaty fist had his heart in a vice grip, and kept throwing it against his ribcage. All these years later, the other shoe had finally dropped. Fiona was here, and Jimmy was about to follow suit.

He did the only rational thing he could think of---he threw the bottle against the wall, and relished the sound it made as it cracked against the wall.

He collapsed into the couch, head heavy in his hands. Despite the innate need to find his girls, there was an odd sense of relief. He’d started this nightmare twenty years ago--maybe now he could put it to bed, and finally wake up. He let that thought linger, allowing himself to take a drag off of his cigarette and collect himself.

It didn’t matter how he felt--he couldn’t sit idly by--he had to do something. So he stood up and began to pull on the clothing from the floor. He didn’t know where Fiona and Kerrianne were, but maybe he could try and get someone at the office to track the call or some shit.

He stopped in his tracks, freezing as he put on his coat.

Shit. Nobody...nobody at the office knew. They...Fiona wasn’t in his file. Nobody knew. 

Unfortunately, his phone began to buzz, vying for his attention. Immediately he looked down at the screen--it could be Fi.

It wasn’t. Instead ‘TIG TRAGER’ flashed across the screen. No one decent was up this hour. He grit his teeth, and answered with a hiss, “This better be fucking important, ya bastard--”

“Chibs.” Gone was the sparkle of mirth they had shared that afternoon. “I need you to come down to the station. I know you just left, but there’s someone you’re going to want to talk to.”

The timing was too coincidental.

Mistaking his pause for condemnation, Tig continued on the other end. “Look, just..come down to the station, man. Please.”

Chibs had every intention of running every red light and breaking every speed limit he could in order to get to the station.

He had somewhere to be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Juice hit the mat with a harsh thud, the rush of pain temporarily blurring his vision. He’d appreciate the skill of that left hook once his brain stopped rattling around.

Immediately his sparring partner dropped down beside him, “Damn Juice, you okay?”

“S’alright.” He slurred, spitting the mouth-guard out as he sat up. Had he not been wearing headgear the fall would have been much nastier--he’d had his head bounce off the mat one too many times already. 

Upon verification, the other boxer dropped all pretense of concern. “You’re getting sloppy, man.” Kipp took out his own mouth guard, grinning ear to ear. “Maybe you wouldn’t suck so much if you went to the prizefights with me. It’s good money and good fun.”

“Trying to keep clean in all meanings of the word, you feel me?” He cracked his neck; he was definitely going to bruise. “Thanks though. Appreciate it, man.”

Kipp frowned slightly, but nodded his head in understanding. “Yeah, yeah I get you. Still, if you ever change your mind, I’d love to have a buddy in the ring. Though I think the cops have more to worry about than a bunch of dudes brawling in a warehouse but…” He shrugged. “Besides, they’re trying to make bare knuckle boxing officially sanctioned and shit. Most fights worth their salt have a medic on sight, man.”

Juice rolled his shoulders, letting the other boxer excitedly prattle on. This wasn’t the first time nor would it be the last time he’d hear the speech. Even so, it was good to see Kipp so enthusiastic about something. Shit had been rough when Kipp was first discharged, but he was slowly coming back to life from his time in the army.  
.  
There was a buzzing from outside the ring, Warrant's “Cherry Pie” blasting throughout Lumpy’s Boxing Gym. 

Kipp buried his face into his glove. “Ah, shit, I forgot I was supposed to pick up Cherry after her shift.”

“Your ass is going to get kicked by a girl who’s a hundred pounds soaking wet.” He shot him a wolfish grin, removing his gloves. “Nice.”

Kipp bowed out of the ring, grabbing and flipping open his cell. “Hey babe--” Immediately a woman’s voice blasted through the receiver, and it wasnt from joy. He grimaced, pulling back from the speaker.

Of course, that only made Juice smile more. Cherry’s wrath was totally justified--Kipp had forgotten to pick her up twice this week. He made a clapping motion, and mouthed, “Good one, numbnuts.”

He rolled his eyes, and flipped Juice off as he scrambled to pull off and collect his gear. “I know, I know, I’m sorry--” That only made her yell louder.

He did his best to tune the two lovebirds out. They’d be alright--part of Kipp’s charm was the fact he was shit for brains--a trait that boxing only further exacerbated.

They went their separate ways, allowing Juice to take a moment for himself and cool down. He began by mopping up the excess sweat as he took in his surroundings. It was good to set roots down again, to establish himself as a familiar face--even if it was just at a Lumpy’s. It was the one place he was able to center himself physically and emotionally--it was his church, and the physicality it produced his worship. The gym became a gathering of many a lost soul looking for a quiet place to work out their shit.

It was a haven to all under Lumpy, but it had changed hands since then. The old man had not gone quietly into that good night after a life time of survival. The least the patrons could do was keep the doors open.

Things had changed since Jacob Hale had come on, and not for the better. The usual patrons came and went, sticking to their routine, but newer, more sinister faces had become all too frequent. They weren’t here for absolution, but for collection.

Presently,Jacob was the only other soul in the establishment. It was after hours, but the regulars knew that Jacob practically all but lived at the gym. If the light was on and you were a familiar face, it didn’t matter what the sign out front said: Lumpy’s was always open to the right people. Juice gave a little wave to the fat man behind the desk, his beady eyes squinting at the dimly lit monitor in front of him. Jacob raised his head slightly, curly hair bouncing as he nodded in acknowledgement, before going right back back to the computer.

Juice pulled his phone out of his bag, checking the time: 6.P.M. He’d want to grab a shower before he started his shift at Betty’s. It looked like he was going to be covering as bartender for the evening, and he wanted to give himself ample time to prepare. It wasn’t that slinging drinks was tiring (except that it was), but more he wanted to be in the right headspace. To his customers he was whatever they wanted him to be: booze dispenser, sympathetic shoulder, friendly face, it didn’t matter. It was his aim to please, and the best way to clear his mind after a good workout was a hot shower.

He ducked into the back, making his way down to the men’s locker room. His hand was on the knob, but something made him hesitate. The hair on his neck stood up on end, and he quickly turned back around.

He knew better than to ignore his gut. So badly he wanted to hope for the best, but he expected the worst. He indulged his paranoia and whipped his head around to the side.

Nothing.

His eyes shifted from the red brick archway he just emerged from to the dark hallway before him, but there was nobody there. 

Then he heard it.

It was a soft voice barely above a murmur, but he knew it didn’t belong. The only person that was there was Jacob, right? He stared down into the dark again, willing something to look back. It suddenly dawned on him that there might be someone in the inventory room shuffling around to put the kettle balls back or some shit. Though he could have sworn that only he and Kipp closed the shop down, but the possibility was a comfort to the alternative.

If there was another person, he didn’t want them to get the jump on him. His eyes drifted to the corners of the room, and back to the archway. No movement. Still. Silent. He crept along the wall, his back close enough to the red brick he could feel coolness radiating off of the stonework. Finally he paused, in total darkness, by the inventory room door. There was a faint light beneath the door. Was the light always on?

There was movement.

He stood immobilized against the wall, willing his heart and breath to still despite the anxiety that intertwined them. 

“Nothin’ bad is going to happen to you. It’ll be okay, so quit your cryin. Tears never helped nobody.”

The voice definitely belonged to a woman, and was heavily accented. It was then Juice noticed that there was a faint light coming from the keyhole of the inventory room. He squatted then, taking one more look around, before peering into the keyhole.

His blood ran cold.

There were two chairs that held what he assumed were two women, but he could only make out one figure clearly. She black curly hair that brushed her shoulders, save for a forelock of white hair. It was striking, and it only brought out her high cheek bones and the ochre of her skin. There was a smear along her forehead that dribbled down her face and nose.

Blood.

“How will it be okay? They beat you.” The second voice belonged to the figure whose back was to him. Her voice was soft, and held a similar lilt to it, despite being so young. Her hands tightened into fists, straining against the zip ties that bound them. “Mom.” This time her voice was thick with emotion, bordering on tears. “You’re still bleeding.”

“Now you listen to me Kerrianne, and you listen well. I’ve had worse. You know that. We’ll get through this.” The first woman, the girl’s mother, managed a smile, but it didn’t reach her glassy eyes.

Juice didn’t dare breathe, and he could feel his mind splintering at the scene unfolding before him. How the hell was he going to make sense of this? These _definitely_ weren’t people restocking the inventory room. He was no genius by any means, but even he could tell something fucked up was going down. Worse, he had the experience to back his paranoia. He jumped to his feet, knocking on the door. “Hey, is uh, is anyone in there?”

Silence.

Why wouldn’t they answer? 

He knocked harder, the wood rattling and refusing to budge.“I thought I heard--”

“Juice! What the hell are you going on about?” How Jacob , who had a knack for stomping wherever he went, snuck up on him he’ll never know. His eyes darted from Juice, to the door, and back. His gaze hardened.

Juice’s heart slammed against his ribs, each beat painful and wracked with panic. “I thought I…” He swallowed thickly, his throat suddenly bone dry. He had to keep it together. “I thought someone was in the inventory room.”

“Nah.” Jacob shouldered past him, rattling the handle violently. “See? It’s locked. Ain’t nobody in there.”

“Shit, man.” He scratched his neck idly, acutely aware of the cold sweat dripping down into his shirt. The hair on his neck was still on end. “Sorry, guess I just get paranoid sometimes. I saw the light on and thought...I don’t know, man.” He shot him a smile, but it had too many teeth, too many nerves to be convincing.

Somehow, this made Jacob relax, his stance softening. He barked out a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re jumpier than a virgin at a prison rodeo. But that’s why we love you, Juice.” He clapped him on the back.

Juice couldn’t help but flinch at the touch. He wanted to jump out of his skin.

“Anyways, I’m going to close up. Like, actually close up. You good to go?”

He nodded his head up and down like a bobble head, his gym bag and shower long forgotten. The only thing that broke through the fog in his mind was the soft Irish crooning of a mother trying to comfort her child. Bile was rising in the back of his throat--this wasn’t right, and he knew it.

There was no way that Jacob didn’t know that there were two women tied up and bloodied in his inventory room. How long had they been there? Had they been there the entire time he’d been sparring with Kipp? How long had that woman been left to bleed?

“Yeah. See you later, Jacob .” He shot him another smile, but made a b-line for the door.

As soon as stepped out of the gym, he ducked into the alley beside the shop. Tremors wracked his body, and each breath was becoming increasingly shallow and fast. He had no choice but to sit down amidst the rubbish and detritus to calm his nerves. He tightened his hoodie around himself, squeezing his limbs together into a tiny catatonic ball.

No matter where he went, trouble followed him. It clung to him like a dark familiar, trailing him all the way from the west coast to the east. He had fallen into a false sense of security since he left California--it was only a matter of time until he fucked up again.

And now that he was once again at that crossroads--what should he do? Jacob was his friend, but...those women. A mother and daughter.

He could always call the police and leave an anonymous tip. But...no, surely he was just overreacting. Maybe there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this, and if he went to the cops…

He could feel heartbeat pulsate faster and faster in his chest, like he had buried it under the floorboards.

_Don’t - Lie. Don’t - Lie._

Over and over, his heart beat those words out in time. Tears pricked at his eyes. It didn’t matter what he did. He was fucked--the cops would find him, even if he was anonymous. Who’d believe an ex-con? A fucking ex-junkie? And what about Jacob ? He’d never trust him again. God, they all would probably just think _he _did this, and--

More bile burned the back of his throat.. He slumped against the grimy brick, shuddering at the grit and the coolness. It brought little relief.

He couldn’t lie to himself, as much as he wanted to. He knew what he saw.

On shaky legs he made his way home, head lost in a fog of shoulds and should-nots. The last thing on his mind was work. He scrubbed his hands over his face, trembling with anxiety. The words ‘BETTY’S BAR’ flickered down at him in red, a neon beacon in the night. He opened the door, the dim interior lighting doing little to illuminate his thoughts. Betty stood behind the oak bar that had been polished to perfection, the lit signs above reflecting off it’s smooth surface. Tables and chairs were strewn about the room, no two the same, bringing their own individual quirk and charm. Thankfully, many of the tables were empty---it was still too early for their usual clientele.

A lone woman sat at the bar nursing a martini, deep in conversation with the owner, Betty. Instantly he recognized the halo of blond hair, and the syrupy sweet southern drawl--it was none other than Venus.

Upon hearing the door open, both women turned to him. Venus flashed a pearly white smile that was refreshingly genuine. “It is so good to see you, Juicy.” She stood to greet him, towering over him in her platform heels. Once she saw his haunted expression, her smile faltered. “Honey, what’s botherin’ you?”

Juice shot a look at Betty, who was drying a beer glass with a dish towel. Her hands were rough and worn, no stranger to hard work and a harder life. There was little that was soft about Betty--the latina had an odd crook to her nose, and every inch of her was scrawny and muscular, primed and ready to let a fist fly. Apparently she was Cuban, her maiden name Ortega. Once he’d asked her why she had kept her married name. The woman had simply shrugged,”It was still better being Betty Flanigan than Betty Ortega.”

It was this woman, hardened and battle worn, who had been the first to show him kindness since he relocated.

“You look and smell like shit.” Betty set the glass down, “Go take a shower.”

He shakily nodded his head, and darted up the stairs to do as he was told. Before he reached the top of the stairs, he could have sworn he heard Venus said, “Betty, that boy found trouble, I’m sure of it.”

She had no idea how right she was.

\---

The shower had done wonders to help his racing mind, but nothing to alleviate his guilt. He ran a hand over the mirror, wiping away the condensation to reveal a haggard face staring back at him. For the first time in months, he recognized the man he’d been trying to run from in the mirror. It was all in the eyes--the two black voids for a soul staring back at him. They were hungry and hollow, craving for some feeling other than the white static rattling through his brain. They were the eyes of a desperate man, who would do anything, anything, to keep himself tethered to this world.

Juice swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut. Count to ten and breathe, bring all to mind--

In. Ten.

Out. Nine.

In. Eight.

Out. Seven.

All he had to do was breathe. He continued his mantra until he had reached the final number, opening his eyes to a more frazzled but kinder face. Whatever shade had been summoned had been stuffed back into it’s coffin, double bolted and locked where it belonged. His eyes dropped down to the tattoo on his chest--two skulls mirroring one another, one per pec, inverted under the words ‘SON SHINE’. The man in the mirror versus the man in the flesh: duality and dichotomy. 

He splashed water on his face, strengthening his resolve. There was a reason why the ink was permanent, a reminder in the flesh. He took a second look at himself in the mirror. No wonder why Venus and Betty had been so concerned---his jaw was beginning to bruise where he’d taken a punch earlier, and he looked every bit as rattled as he felt. 

Gently, he pressed against the swollen skin, wincing at the pain. Bruises, busted lips and broken noses were normally frowned upon in a typical 9 to 5 gig, but at Betty’s it was almost encouraged. The first time he’d shown up with a black eye he’d been falling over himself with apologies. Instead, she’d just watched him with amusement, simply waiting for him to tire himself out. After a moment of anxious silence, she shrugged, and told him maybe it would give something for their rougher customers to think twice before starting shit.

He toweled the excess water from his skin, reveling in the flush of raw skin. For the first time that day, he actually felt clean. Of course, it’d be short lived, but he’d take what little victories he could get. He threw on a pair of dark jeans and a black v-neck; the standard uniform of a bartender, and shuffled down the stairs. He kept a few things at Betty’s for emergencies. 

The two women eyed his every step, oblivious to the patrons that had started to trickle in. As soon as he reached the bar, a glass of water was waiting for him. Betty cocked an expectant brow at him, motioning to a seat at the bar next to Venus.

Juice couldn’t look at them, not yet. He ducked his head, sheepishly grabbing a stool next to the blonde, and took little sips on the water he was offered. Every sip bought him a few seconds to mull his thoughts over. What should he say? What could he say? He worried his lower lip between his teeth, and rapped his fingers against the waterglass to fill the silence. 

Apparently he’d been quiet just long enough to warrant a response. A warm hand touched his tattooed forearm, causing him to recoil. He jerked his head up searching for it’s owner, only to see Venus’s doe eyes gazing back at him. A wave of guilt flooded him, his cheeks burning with shame. It was just Venus--warm, kind, Venus. He had no reason to flinch. Her hands would never hurt him.

She placed her hand back on his arm, gentler this time. “It’s okay, honey.These lips are sealed.” She made a zipper motion across her lips. “Tell Venus what’s on your mind.” 

“I-I know.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s just...I saw something. Something I shouldn’t have.” A pause. He looked between the two women, each giving him his full attention. He knew they neither women would tell a soul if they didn’t have to. 

Fuck it. He’d made enough mistakes--what was a few more? “Something bad.”

Betty stopped polishing the glass she’d been holding, looking him square in the eye. 

“Spill it.”

“I was at Lumpy’s with Kipp.” He motioned toward swollen skin along his jaw. “He left to pick up Cherry, and it was just me and Jacob , and I heard something. I just…got a feeling, you know?” 

To anyone else, it would have sounded like he was just being a chicken shit, but there was something to be said for survivors--they learned quickly. Pain was a cruel teacher, and it made them more wary, more cautious, more likely to survive. Such was the burden of knowledge. The women before him were champions of their own personal Hells--he needn’t explain instincts honed by tragedy.

“Turns out the sound was coming from the inventory room, and, well, it was locked so...I took a look through the keyhole.” He could do this. He was in good company, he was safe, they’d listen to him, it would...it’d be fine. “There were two women tied to chairs--I think a mother and daughter. The mom had gotten a pretty serious beat down. She was still bleeding a little.”

Betty stiffened, curling her hands into fists, but she said nothing. Her gaze was elsewhere, her eyes shuttered and unreadable.

It was Venus who spoke. She squeezed his hand, “Keep going.”

“I couldn’t get a good look at the daughter; her back was to the door. The lighting was pretty dim, but I could make out a few things about the mom.” He rubbed the back of his head. If he’d tried harder he could have gotten a better look at the two of them. “I think she was black? She had lighter skin, but definitely not white. Wavy black hair and a white streak in her hair. Oh! And they were Irish. Definitely Irish.”

“Definitely Irish and definitely a mother and daughter, huh?” Betty shut her eyes, a soft sigh escaping her lips. “Do I want to know how you know that?” She said it more for herself than anyone else.

Venus let out a sigh of relief, leaning back in her chair slightly. “As bad as it seems, at least they’ll be hard to overlook. You can’t take a Mama and her daughter and expect no one to notice. Especially when they sound so...unique.”

“Yeah. At least that, I guess. But I have a name, for sure. The daughter’s name was Kerrianne, I think?”

That got the attention of both women, but for what reason he couldn’t guess. So he continued, “I’ve been going to Lumpy’s for years. Hell, I knew Lumpy himself before the guy passed. But this?” He shook his head, “This is some next level shit. This would have never happened when Lumpy was manning the shop--whatever ‘this’ is.”

“So what do you want to do?” Betty had crossed over to his side of the bar. She stood before him now, arms carefully folded across her chest. Her tone indicated no malice, and her face was carefully kept blank. There was no question as to whether his eyes had deceived him, or any arguments over Jacob ’s innocence. It was clear that she’d give no input on the situation--whatever he chose had to be of his own doing.

His choice. _ His._

It was for that reason, he knew what he had to do. “I...I don’t want to be a rat. That’s what I want.” He paused, licking his lips, “But. It’s not about what I want, is it? I know what I should do. What I need to do.” A hollow laugh escaped his lips, shaking his head. No matter where he went, this shit caught up with him. “I gotta tell somebody, don’t I?

Venus got off her stool, hand still held in his. “I think you do, baby boy. I’m sorry. But you’re not alone, okay?” She shot a look at Betty, who nodded, an unspoken conversation passing between the two.

“They’re not going to believe an ex-con. Or a fucking junkie, Christ.” He turned his head away, gritting his teeth. “They’ll probably think _ I’m _the one who put them there. Shit gets twisted in my head, turned around--they’re gonna sense I’m the weakest link and pin it on me. They’ve done it before--I--”

“Juice. Look at me.” Venus carefully framed his face with her perfectly manicured hands. “I’m going to be with you every step of the way, okay? And if they won’t believe you, they have the wife of a cop to reckon with. And they _will_ listen to me, whether they like it or not.”

He nodded his head up and down, swallowing back emotion. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” 

Most of the time he tried to forget that Venus was married to a cop. Sure, he’d known some good ones, even during his prison days. But he’d also known far too many that were easily bought, and quick to inflict violence. It was just better to keep his head down.

She was right though. He’d only met Tig once or twice, and despite his contempt for Juice, he would always listen to Venus.

“Have I ever lied to you? I mean it, Juice. I’m in your corner.”

There was so much going on in his head, the voices too loud, just as they were before. Too many thoughts, too many emotions. He stood up, prying himself from Venus’s warmth. Everybody already thought he was a rat--so what was one more? He had so many things to make amends for. He had to believe he could be what he always needed to be: a good guy. 

”No. You haven’t. You’re right, you’re right. Sorry, I just....” He didn’t bother finishing his sentence. Didn’t need to.

Betty placed a hand on his back, tentatively, “Go ahead and go with Venus. They’ll be on the skeleton shift by now, so you’ll have less cops to worry with. I’ll cover your shift tonight--don’t worry about it, okay? If you need someone to kick someone’s ass, let me know. I don’t give a flying fuck if it happens to be cop ass, you hear me?” 

That made him smile, and he nodded.

She left as soon as she came, preferring to keep the bar between herself and the world. Venus slung her purse over her shoulder, linking her muscular arm with his. “ Come on, sweet pea. We’re going to give my Alexander a little visit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We meet a few familiar faces in this chapter! Part of what I enjoy about writing fanfic is paying homage to minor characters. I can't bring in every character I've liked, but I'm certainly going to sprinkle them here and there. I actually snuck in an original character for flavor as well (shout out to my friend Carrie for helping create Betty to be the badass she is). An important side note--Jacob Hale is NOT the same as Sheriff Hale (I actually liked Sheriff Hale a lot, and was sad to see him go). 
> 
> You can expect to see more alternating point of view chapters as well! I have much more to say, but this chapter doesn't need to be any longer. I'd love to hear feedback on what can be improved, as this is a living document, and what did and didn't work. I'm already floored at how many people have read this moldy manuscript.


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